Hate.

A summer of loving men.

It appears to be self-evident that all men are created equal, that they are the last remaining natural predator of women for whom they lack the ability to see as full human beings. It is for these reasons that they should be considered dangerous and regarded with caution in the event that they are unavoidable. I find it a waste to spend time concocting a hierarchy of men from “good” to “bad” or “bad” to “worse.” I find it unproductive to invest energy into changing men, bargaining for the humanity of myself and other women like a hostage. The extent to which I try to understand them, therefore, is limited to increasing my and other women’s ability to navigate the world without becoming collateral damage in their quest for life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, a key feature of which is the indefinite subjugation of my sex. 

Do I hate men? 

How might the sands feel about the tide coming in? 

“I HATE MEN!” my coworker Gabi fumes beside me in our aggressively air-conditioned production trailer. It is deep into the summer, humidity unrelenting and the sun has been cooking us in ninety-degree or higher heat for the better part of a month. As the keepers of festival staff necessities such as radios, golf cart keys, sunscreen, and a treasure trove of snacks, it is unusual for just the two of us to be in here. But I assume that her choice of timing for this outburst is because we are, in fact, alone. 

“Oh?” I say. 

Our very first week working together, Gabi pulled me aside with a grin on her face saying she had gotten the 411 on all the guys on the production crew, a panel of tall, white, bearded, hipster dudes. The kind who would enjoy spending their summer neck deep in operating a festival like this. 

“I know each one’s ideal type, the ones who are single, and the ones who want to be single,” she told me, “and based on that, I’ve decided which ones I’m gonna smash.” 

“Oh?” I said back then as well. Because how else is there to respond?

Despite our obvious personality differences, Gabi and I created a good vibe for the production trailer alongside Stephanie who was your quintessential cute, blonde, original brand Americana woman, her collection of straw hats impressive. The rules for our combined Spotify playlist were 1. Must have a female singer and 2. Must be, in their words, “cunty.” 

Beyonce, Dua Lipa, Charli XCX, Sabrina Carpenter, Chappell Roan, and Taylor Swift dominated half of the playlist. The other half was a slow indoctrination into the world of K-pop, courtesy of me. Our first day blasting this playlist using Gabi’s portable speaker was the first iteration of what I would internally call the “girl talk huddle,” during which Stephanie told us about the plight of her roommate back home who was madly in love with her coworker who she was glued to the hip with every second of the work day. He showered her with attention, compliments, and lingering touches which only made her fall harder. The issue? He already had a girlfriend and when he brought said girlfriend to the previous weekend’s company party, he went the whole evening without acknowledging that Stephanie’s roommate was there. The next day in the office though? Back to normal. 

“I think your roommate should realize that the male attention she seeks has no value,” I say after the two of them had been going back and forth for a while about the absurdity of the situation. 

“Right!” Stephanie says, “Because he already has a girlfriend.”

“It would have no value even if he didn’t. Male attention has no value at best and is actively a danger at worst. As it is, he knows exactly what he’s doing so she should assert her boundaries. At minimum, there’s no reason for him to be touching her at all in the workplace. It’s highly inappropriate.”

I wonder if I went too hard when the two of them just kind of stare at me in shocked silence for a moment. But then Gabi perks up and snaps her fingers.

“Yes, Anna, talk yo shit!” But two months later, we end up where we end up. 

“He really thought he could talk shit about me to Stephanie and thought she wouldn’t come right to me and tell? I mean, I was offended when both Matt and James said she was their ideal type but… damn… I wasn’t even looking for anything serious obviously like I mean I’m pretty sure James is planning on breaking up with his girlfriend and Matt... I thought we were friends. You saw when he brought his ex here right? They didn’t look like exes. But I guess they’re the type of guys to be flirty with everyone.”

On one hand, I do feel sad that Gabi seems so genuinely shocked and out of sorts, her loud confidence replaced with an uncharacteristic self-doubt. On the other hand, I find it exhausting spelling this kind of thing out for women who can’t or refuse to see through the fog.

“He’s not though. Remember when Stephanie told us that story about her roommate with the work crush? That guy, Matt, and James all know what they’re doing. This is all by design. All summer those guys have walked into this trailer where I am sitting at the desk right next to you. They’ve had full on ten or twenty minute conversations with you and leave without acknowledging I’m here. It’s not that I want their attention, it’s just pretty odd… and rude.”

“Matt loves Star Wars though!” Gabi says, her anger giving way to confusion. 

“Yes. We talked about it once for two minutes my first day here and I haven’t had a conversation with him since.” 

“Not even out on site? At dinner? He doesn’t help you with anything? He’s always swinging by to see if there’s anything I need.” I laugh.

“Of course not. He doesn’t want to fuck me. Or more like… he’d rather fuck Stephanie, you, that one really pretty girl on the volunteer team, and probably no small number of interns… in that order.” 

“What about James? Does he talk to you at all?”

“He pointed me in the right direction of a drill bit I was looking for once. That’s really it. But it’s not like I’m looking to converse with them either. They’re on a different branch of the production team. Casually conversing with them would be a big detour on either of our parts.” I let her marinate on that for a while. 

“Bitch, you should’ve told me! Then I wouldn’t have made as much of a fool of myself.” This is a line and scenario I was used to, this conversation that tends to repeat when friends scorned by men come running to me to vent out their frustrations. 

“Women I’m friends with… don’t tend to take too kindly to that course of action.” She groans.

“Whatever. I’m so over this. I’m mostly a lesbian anyway.” 

At that, the way I kept my facial expression blank should get me an Oscar.

I’m waiting for my things in baggage claim after being away from home for seven months when I get an email from a theater festival I’d forgotten about looking for an assistant stage manager starting tomorrow. I check the current time—9:47 PM. Curiosity gets the best of me. I always like to get the inside scoop on a shitshow. 

That’s how I meet Emily, a stressed-out stage manager for whom the sky seems to be falling trying to pull together this very low-stakes black box theater production with, to her credit, a stupid amount of props and a batshit crazy director. But we get through rehearsals, then tech rehearsals, and by opening night we are on the same wavelength running the show. 

“So there’s this guy,” she begins to tell me after our second show run as we’re going through the handwash costume items together. “He is devastatingly hot. He’s also engaged. Which is what makes it super strange that he’s telling me that his fiancee is in Ireland all week and he’s sending me pictures like this!” 

She holds her phone up and shows me the photo of a standard issue white man making a heart sign with his fingers. “And he’s inviting me out for dinner when I swear we’ve barely spoken to each other since we did the Scottish Play together way at the beginning of this year.” 

“Oh?” I say. 

“If it were anyone else I’d say we were gonna fuck but I mean he’s super sweet, super hot, bisexual - I just trust queer guys way more, and autistic so he just communicates differently. But he’s so hot it’s distracting. How am I going to survive this dinner?” 

“You could turn him down,” I say. She gasps. 

A few days later, there are updates. 

“We spent the entire day together. I almost died,” she said. “And now he wants to swing by the theater after the show and go out for tequila shots. I’m really going to die this time.” 

“Be careful,” I say. 

The next day arrives. 

“We fucked. Anna. I fucked an engaged man.” 

“That you did,” I say. 

“Please tell me you’ve done something even half as wild.” I shrug.

“I don’t speak to men but… I did spend my college years working at a nightclub run by the mob.” She ignores that second part. 

“I swear I basically never speak to men either. I usually date women but… this guy, he’s just so sweet.” 

“He did just cheat on the woman he plans to marry.” I can tell that this conversation is not going how she expected. “Nothing can be done about it now. I just think his actions demonstrate that he doesn’t respect his fiancee and he doesn’t respect you and if you continue to go after him, you wouldn’t be respecting yourself.” 

She’s silent for a moment before groaning. 

“I hate men,” she says. 

Despite it being August, the women’s film festival I am somehow roped into has seen a string of cool nights where I lean against the podium in front of the venue while the show goes on inside. When scrolling through my phone, an Asian woman named Izzy who looks to be in her forties comes meandering outside. She takes one look at me and starts talking.

“I know the filmmaker. Even volunteered to help promote this screening for her. But she never responded. Never even reached out when she knew I was having all that trouble with my landlord. The subject matter was far from what I was expecting though. I should’ve stayed home.” 

“Oh?” I say. 

“Yeah. But… I mean… you know how white women are. I’m really tired of them. I need a break. I need to really be around people who showcase that they are invested in women’s empowerment.” At that, I perk up a bit. While the woman in front of me seems a bit crazy, I still have an hour to kill standing at this podium. Spending it with an artsy activist was as good of a time killer as anything.  

“It’s a pet peeve of mine that when it comes to women it’s all about this false sense of empowerment while for men it’s about power. They get something real while we are told to focus on what feels good. I swear half the time I hear about ‘women’s empowerment’ it has something to do with sex.”

“You’re honestly right,” she says. “But white women in particular seem completely unwilling to work with each other, much less with minority women.” 

I lay out my view that the majority of women are indoctrinated with the value system of their male overseers which is white men in the case of white women. Black men for black women. Asian men for Asian women. In the power struggle among men, women are a resource to flaunt and subdue as needed. Just ask Drake and Kendrick Lamar. 

“The fact of the matter is that men cannot see us as human. As it is, bonds between women are the biggest threat to male rule. Knowledge passed from generation to generation of women that does not center on serving men is blasphemous according to the tenets of male doctrine. I understand your frustrations, but I think it’s important to keep an eye on the bigger picture, even if you decide to not work with this particular filmmaker again.” 

For someone who seems so much older than me, I’m surprised that the concepts I’m laying out seem brand new to her. We chat for a bit about women’s liberation and I express my desire to emphasize that women have autonomy and that it is frustrating to me that so many conveniently forget that when it does not suit them. 

“I just worked with this woman who hooked up with an engaged man. She felt kind of bad about it afterward but then flipped the whole story around to be about… male manipulation and general shittiness. Which… okay. But she willingly participated in all of it. I don’t know. I guess I just wish that women would own up to their own mistakes. Not everything they do can be someone else’s fault. Male rule and male violence are two very real problems, I just… I don’t know how to phrase this. But I’ve been thinking about it all summer.” 

“Female autonomy is great,” she says, “but women can’t fare very well autonomously on their own.” I have to hold myself back from laughing in her face as she paints a picture of disenfranchised women forced into marriage and trafficked for sex. I ask her what any of that has to do with my coworker going out with the intention of fucking some guy she thought was hot. From there and for the next two days of the film festival, she comes early and stays late to pick my brain about feminism. She is highly resistant to the notion that women can truly make choices and that invisible chains require us to marry men. 

“Far too many have sacrificed too much for too long for me to behave as though I am enslaved,” I say. “We might not have control over everything, but you need to recognize your own power. And with power comes responsibility for your own actions whether they be brilliant or idiotic. I’m completely capable of needlessly derailing my own life if I choose to. And no, I’m not talking about getting thrown unexpected life curveballs where you just need to make the best of a bad situation.” 

She is very attached to creating a hierarchy of men, explaining in detail the men who have been cruel to her and celebrating the men who have not. The ones who, in her words, “tried to not be predatory.” 

“I’m not in the business of giving cookies to men based on whether or not they raped me,” I say with a shrug. 

On the fourth night of the festival, she arrives to the theater upset about a man who she thought was her friend but really had no respect for her at all as evidenced by some kind of argument they had at a cafe earlier that day. 

“I’m sorry that went down that way,” I say.

“I really thought he was one of the good ones. Be careful around men you think are your friend.”

“The whole concept of a male friend is an oxymoron to me,” I say. It’s not the first time I have to remind her that I have no casual association with men. But she’s very angry at the moment. I consider it possible she forgot. Again. 

“He was always so sweet and attentive, sticking up for me when other guys in public would make me uncomfortable.” 

“It’s dangerous business relying on men to protect you from other men. It is typically the men who have the most access to us who pose the greatest threat. The window of opportunity is wider, the incurred risk lower.”

She continues to air out her feelings a little more. The night’s film is starting soon. 

“I really hate men,” she says. I don’t respond. Eventually, she goes inside. 

How does one feel about the sun rising in the east and setting in the west? How does one feel about water being wet or fire being hot? How does one feel about a fork being found in a kitchen? 

On my drive home, I criticize my approach. Should I not expect more from this particular half of the population? Am I letting them off the hook by labeling them predators by their very nature? Am I complacent? Am I putting unjust blame on all the women who come to me professing hate for men they choose to be around and continue to associate with after their anger cools down? 

I think I am just irritated by the extent to which this sideshow of misadventures detracts from real obstacles. From the real fight. It was amusing enough in high school. Acceptable enough in college. But now? They do say the definition of insanity is trying the same thing and expecting a different result. And that is how I feel in these “girl talk huddles.” That is how I feel when I waste so much of my breath trying to illustrate a point only for it to all repeat again a day, a month, a year later and shunned for not understanding because I’m supposedly too different to understand. Repeated actions and associations that are entirely voluntary, seemingly serve no purpose, and seemingly have no value. It is exhausting. It is needless. It makes my heart numb and my empathy run dry. And yet throughout my entire summer, it seems to have been the cornerstone of female bonding.

Is that not royally fucked up?  

Gabi uploads a photo to Instagram of herself splayed in the lap of a man at some excessively neon party.

Once again, I feel the tide coming in.